


Beloved, Tamed

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [46]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 14:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14215062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Lance and Arthur and a museum.





	Beloved, Tamed

**Author's Note:**

> I hate summaries. This is set near to St. Valentine's Day and The Plane To New York City in this series. Arthur is in the police academy and Lance is graduated, but still running A Perfect Circle.

Museums were always too cold, Lance thought.

Arthur had wandered off a bit ago, saying something about looking for some French illuminated book that he’d read about, and Lance had merely waved a hand at him, still trying to digest the incredible amount of coffee he’d had in the museum café. The other man had disappeared quickly, and Lance found himself aimlessly touring the stone building, not stopping for too long in any place, medieval art not his forte.

It was a lovely place, though, and he caught sight of the gardens through one of the stained glass windows that were in almost every hall. This particular museum had been open at least a hundred years, and while he’d been to New York more than a few times, Arthur hadn’t, and since they had finished up the seminar Arthur had to come for, _why not go, Lance? It’s easy to get there by train._

If that’s what Arthur wanted, Lance would do it. 

The past few months had been exhausting and filled with thoughts of Arthur being shot, Arthur being killed on his bike in the middle of a car chase, Arthur being killed by a bomber in trashed up Beverly Hills, Arthur realizing he loved being a cop more than he loved Lance.

The lines that he hated (he wasn’t that old, for fuck’s sake) by his mouth appeared as he frowned. He shivered in the air conditioning, and the shapeless, too large sweater he wore over his tee and jeans slid backward with the motion, the neck trying to choke him. He tugged at it and cursed, apparently loudly as a small family stared at him and hustled their children away from him.

He was still managing APC, still trying to get used to Arthur doing what he loved, and still trying to keep his father and more importantly Gwen out of their business. Arthur, a cop, just like his father. He laughed, and when more people looked at him, he hurried out of the hallway, away from the view of the gardens and into whatever room lay next.

Luckily it was empty, and Lance adjusted his sweater again and could finally breathe. He scrubbed a hand through his too long hair, and blinked, realizing he was surrounded by tapestry, hung neatly and lit prettily – 

“Fuck.”

Now these pieces he knew.

As kids, he and Gwen had been obsessed with all things fantasy and knights and dragons and whatever sword and sorcery crap they could lay their hands on. Their father thought it was strange, and their mother, just to spite Roland (Lance thought) encouraged it, letting them read and watch whatever they could find. T. H. White, Steinbeck, Mary Stewart, and of course, Mallory (fucking cracky shit) were in constant rotation in their bedrooms, their mother reading to them when they were too little to understand some of the older work.

Lance remembered a movie they’d watched in repeat; it was animated and super old, but so, so beautiful, and so, so sad. He’d had to put it away after his mother had left, and really hadn’t thought about it until just now –

The tapestries were things of exquisite beauty. Fine silk threads, lit just so by the curators that obviously knew what they were doing, the room hushed and silent and his alone for this moment. He approached the central one, the one he’d been drawn to when he’d first realized where he was.

He licked dry lips and stared at it, hand rising without his bidding, not touching, but he could feel the … whatever it was radiating off the thing. It was old, older than a lot of things that he’d seen in other places, but it was magnificent and he could almost see the fantastical creature that was tied loosely to the tree that rose in the center of the piece.

_From John D. Rockefeller’s collection, The Unicorn In Captivity, 1495-1505 "The Unicorn in Captivity" may have been created as a single image rather than part of a series. In this instance, the unicorn probably represents the beloved tamed. He is tethered to a tree and constrained by a fence, but the chain is not secure and the fence is low enough to leap over: The unicorn could escape if he wished. Clearly, however, his confinement is a happy one, to which the ripe, seed-laden pomegranates in the tree—a medieval symbol of fertility and marriage—testify._

The fence behind the unicorn _was_ low, and the chain encircling its neck _was_ loose. There was a tiny frog in the corner of the tapestry, and the pomegranates above the unicorn were thick and bursting and leaking onto the captive animal under them.

He remembered reading about this particular piece; that the unicorn was obviously happy to be where it was, and could in reality escape its bonds. And yet it stayed, ready to die for whatever love or devotion shone in its silk and wool weaved eyes.

“Fuck,” slipped from his mouth again, and he shivered, not from the AC this time, and wrapped his arms about his torso as he stared at the thing, unable to break away. It was mesmerizing, and everything that he’d tried to push aside from childhood came roaring back, making his head hurt, his jaw clench and his eyes wet. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, and when Arthur touched his back, he jumped and let out a screech that echoed to the stone roof.

“Jesus, Arthur!”

“Sorry,” the other man responded, his eyes narrowed and mouth turned down in slight worry. “You alright?”

Arthur had a dead leaf caught in his hair, and his cheeks were flushed, and his skin was chilled to the touch. His green eyes, so volatile and so easy to read – Lance wouldn’t ever admit that, it was his own little secret – sparkled and Lance suddenly smiled, so very happy to see Arthur’s face, to see it look like it never did. Like it hadn’t in a while.

Like it hadn’t since he’d joined the Academy, even though Lance knew how much Arthur loved it. 

But nothing was easy, and nothing was exactly the way Arthur had dreamed it would be since Uther had died, and Lance thought that if he could just do _something_ for Arthur, anything to make whatever he was feeling easy or light – he swallowed and touched Arthur's bright cheek with a long, chilled finger.

“Have you been outside?” he asked, ignoring Arthur’s question. “You have a leaf in your hair,” he added, reaching up and pulling the offending plant part out of the curls. Arthur laughed and took it from Lance, looking at it, his jacket and jeans somewhat dirty from being outside. The other man never cared what he looked like or dressed like, and his broad form filled the room, meshing with the feel of the tapestries, modern and ancient, but in combination –

Lance shut his eyes briefly, letting his hand rest on Arthur’s bicep, gripped loosely, the feel of the clothing underneath his fingers very different from how he knew the tapestry would feel, but it was almost as if they were – they were – he opened his eyes and smiled through the wetness drying there. Other people were coming into the small room now, and Arthur lead Lance out to the hall, Lance sparing one glance back at the Unicorn and its happy imprisonment. 

“Yeah, the gardens are amazing,” Arthur answered him. “You’ve got to see them.” He tugged on Lance’s hand, the leaf he was still holding smashed between their fingers. He laughed again, and found a trashcan, throwing it away. Lance took up his hand again and they found the closest door, and went outside to the crisp chill of early Fall in New York, the vibration of the memories the hangings had brought up in him still filling his body and mind. 

The grounds were spectacular, and Arthur went and got Lance a third huge coffee, and they sat on the grass, watching the water flow sluggishly in the Hudson, the edge of New Jersey barely visible from where they sat. The sun was low in the sky; the museum was closing soon, and they would have to get to the train shortly, otherwise be trying to find another hotel room in northern Manhattan after dark. Arthur’s seminar was over, and Lance selfishly realized he was counting the seconds until their flight the next day, wanting to be back in Los Angeles, wanting the heat and the concrete and the places he knew well, away from things that made him cry for no reason, away from memories that welled up no matter what he did to stop them.

He sighed and rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder, his own _beloved, tamed_ held in his hand and his heart and he knew it wasn’t fair, wasn’t right to keep Arthur pinned to him when he wasn’t worth anything or doing anything to help Arthur stay happy or fulfilled. 

_I’m becoming my father’s son._

But Arthur turned to him and stared into his eyes, suddenly, and kissed his mouth and whispered Lance’s name, raising both hands to capture Lance’s face between them, and Lance knew that no amount of shit or dumb crap he could do to ruin any of this would matter, because sadly, awfully, Arthur would always love him.

_My beloved, tamed._

_My beloved._

He kissed Arthur back and shuddered at the vision, held unwanted in his mind, of the captive unicorn’s eyes, so bright like Arthur’s, its face a serene mask despite its bonds and confinement.

**Author's Note:**

> I am struggling so hard writing that when this idea hit me today, I just wanted to capture it. I go through periods where I write a lot, and then none at all. Thanks to all who have read this series over the years; I love you all for your constant support and words. I hope to have some more Arthur stuff soon. We'll see.
> 
> I saw the Unicorn Tapestries back in 2007 and cried when I did. I thought it would be appropriate for Lance to have the same kind of reaction. They are on display in the Cloisters, part of the Met museum in NYC. Thank you to the Met Website for all the info and quote about these pieces.


End file.
